


Gossamer Witnesses: A Compilation

by EeveebethFejvu



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serpent Crowley, Taxi AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveebethFejvu/pseuds/EeveebethFejvu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In celebration of my 10th anniversary on FanFictionDotNet, as well as my first posting on AO3. A collection of sketches, studies, and stories about the Angel of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent of Eden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Definition

Dedication: For Dark Scrivener – best friend, soul-sister, and the Crowley to my Aziraphale. I’m glad I’m finally inspired to write for a fandom we actually share.

Disclaimer: _Good Omens_ belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, though if they’re not planning on ever following through with that proposed sequel, I would be glad to take the rights off their hands. Also, I don’t own any of the crossovers that may occur in these piece; those properties belong to Joseph Fink, Jeffery Cranor, Guillermo del Toro, Julian Fellowes, et al. Also, all music – if not in Heaven and Hell, then at least all music on Earth – belongs to Freddie Mercury and Queen.

Note on the Compilation: The first ten pieces in this compilation were posted in celebration of my 10th anniversary on FanFictionDotNet. I still can’t believe it’s been ten years since I posted my first story on that site, and while a lot has changed – from my fandoms to my style to my ratings – my desire to write about the characters that I love hasn’t changed a bit and probably never will. As a point of interest, this is the first time I’ve posted non-anime fan fiction, as well as the first time I’m posting stories that I didn’t specifically write to post. All of these pieces are drawn from my “mandatory daily creative writing time,” and as I usually write without any planning and half delirious with exhaustion late at night, I should note to all my readers that these works vary drastically in mood, in-character-ness, lucidity, and skill level. They only receive mild editing, and many are inspired by my actual experiences during the times I wrote them. So these are all entirely self-indulgent pieces, which I have chosen to post here for your gratification, rather than my usual solid, serious works. Nevertheless, I hope you do enjoy and I welcome any reviews, comments, or prompt suggestions that you are willing to share.  

Note on the Title: In textual criticism, “witnesses” refer to different manuscripts of a single, original text, all of which feature slight variations in the form of intentional and unintentional additions, deletions, and revisions in the text and punctuation, as in the case of Aziraphale’s Buggre Alle This Bible and its sordid ilk. Like witnesses, these pieces are “variations” on the theme of _Good Omens_ , though in a much more ephemeral, tentative, “gossamer”-like way.

Note: “Definition” was originally written January 6, 2014.

* * *

 

**Definition**

 

“…And so it’s ineffable, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a lofty quirk of his lips. He took a sip of his Earl Gray. Crowley started to speak, then paused, his sunglasses beginning to slip down his nose. Aziraphale frowned, setting the cup on the table. “What is it now?”

 

“What the… What on _Earth_ does that even mean?” the demon asked, though he appeared more perplexed than upset. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and his companion hissed slightly under his breath.

 

“’ _Ineffable_ ’?” The angel chuckled, only a little unkindly. “Why, in all our time of discussing the Great Plan, surely you must know what ‘ineffable’ means. It’s… It’s… er… Well…”

 

It was Crowley’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Aziraphale waved his hands vaguely, flustered and red-cheeked. “Oh, _you know…_ ”

 

“No, I don’t know, and you don’t know either.” Crowley fished around inside of his jacket, pulling out a sleek new iPhone 5.* He leaned back in his chair, swiping and tapping at the smartphone with mindless ease. “I’m looking it up.”

 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale fussed, fiddling with his cup, “I _do_ have dictionaries here, you know,” but he leaned forward in curiosity anyway. Crowley tapped the screen a few more times, paused, and then stared. After a silent, unhelpful moment, the angel asked, “Well…? Did you find it?”

 

A noncommittal sound issued from the demon’s throat. He tilted the screen towards his companion and Aziraphale scooted his chair partially around the table, leaning in. They both stared for several long minutes. Finally, Aziraphale made a quiet _hrumph_ noise and Crowley thrust the iPhone back into his jacket. The angel quickly busied himself with his tea.

 

“Not quite what I, er, what I thought it meant.”

 

“Me neither.”

  

* * *

* Ah, 2014. Above had claimed the mobile phone at first, with its ability to “encourage honest and helpful communication among humans across the globe.” The invention of Candy Crush and the Tumblr app had quickly been pinned on Below, along with a retroactive condemnation of all products by Steve Jobs.

 


	2. ~You Were There~ / Home Is Where Your Demon Is

Note: Originally written on January 22 and January 26, 2014, respectively.

* * *

  **~You Were There~**

 

“Ssssso I hope you’re enjoying the fine weather over there in – what was it? – New Mexxxxico?” the serpent drawled. Though the sales rep had claimed that the tablet’s camera was the best of the best when it came to high-resolution video chat, Crowley was little more than a blur of dark hair, lighter skin tone, and a severe scarlet button-up. There was a strange void in the middle of his pixelated face, and while Aziraphale knew it was the demon’s immovable sunglasses, it discomforted him nonetheless.

 

“It certainly wasn’t my first choice for a winter vacation spot, you know,” the angel replied. He resisted the urge to wipe the screen in hopes that the image would sharpen. _Perhaps this is what actually needing glasses feels like,_ he contemplated, pushing his round, ornamental spectacles further up his nose.

 

“You ssssurely can’t complain, angel,” Crowley said, and, yes, the demon was whining. Central London was currently at a standstill beneath a foot and a half of densely packed snow, and if Aziraphale hadn’t known Crowley’s deep, cold-blooded loathing for anything below 5 degrees Celsius, he might have suspected that the weather calamity was his demonic work. “Warm ssssun, blue sssskies,” Crowley added, and Aziraphale would swear – if angels swore, of course – that his tone was _wistful_. “Plenty of open air for a bit of _flying…_ ”

 

Aziraphale sighed. He was sad for Crowley, but also for himself. “As soon as Heathrow reopens, you know I will be catching the first flight back, my dear.”

 

And even though the video was blurrier than the wrong side of a cracked kaleidoscope, Aziraphale could tell without a doubt that the demon was smiling.

 

* * *

  **Home Is Where Your Demon Is**

 

Soho and Mayfair were not so very far apart, Aziraphale thought, tossing another rolled-up piece of a wheat roll into the pond; they were as close as any two districts of London could be. Three ducks converged on the crumb at nearly the same time, honking and beating ripples across the surface of the pond with their frantically flapping wings. The angel leaned back against the wooden slats of the bench, sighing as a dull ache ran down his spine.

 

Any of the usual excuses wouldn’t work. They were no Sherlock and Watson, requiring a roommate due to a deficiency in funds. Though the angel rarely parted with one of the treasured tomes in his bookshop unless he could help it, he had nothing to worry about in terms of finances, and neither did Crowley, despite the lavish expense of his post-modern penthouse suite. Their favorite parks – including this one – were situated right around and between their bases of operation, so commute time wasn’t a factor, and while it might have been helpful for Aziraphale to have his own car, he just couldn’t get one of those new-fangled machines to run on aether and heavenly – or hellish – suggestion the way that Crowley could. He wasn’t up to using the Earth’s non-renewable resources to fill up a tank, either, of course. And Crowley was in and out of the bookshop almost every day now, a much higher frequency than ever before. So really, what advantage would it serve for them to…? Well…

 

Impatient, long-fingered hands brusquely plucked the roll from Aziraphale’s frozen hands. The angel couldn’t help but smile as the demon tore the bread into chunks, tossing a few in just the right position to cause the most commotion amongst the water fowl. Perhaps a shared dwelling would be a little much for them now... but as their relationship continued to grow more comfortable and mellow and _right,_ Aziraphale felt there was a chance that they could make some place _their_ home.

 


	3. Seasonal

Note: Originally written in three parts on February 6, 9, and 10, 2014.

* * *

 

 With an untouched mug of cooling cocoa clasped between his pudgy fingers, Aziraphale stared dully out the grimy shop window and cautiously, tentatively, allowed himself to wonder: _Can angels become… depressed?_

 

Curled up on threadbare cushion in the window seat, he pulled further into himself, hunched over his soft body. _Surely they… that is,_ “we,” _can’t fall into such a dreary state. How can one be dismal, after all, with all of the Lord’s Creation to rejoice over and, er… be glad in?_ If that were so, though, Aziraphale wondered what this cold, grasping feeling in his chest was, and the pounding in his forehead, and the significant reduction in energy.

 

Snow was piled high in the streets of London and had been for days, and although it was usually the cold-blooded Serpent who moaned and fussed over the slightest hint of a chilly breeze in the air, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if maybe… maybe this feeling had something to do with the _snow_. Heaven was not cold, of course, and though the angel had experienced all of the brutal weather that London and England could cook up for hundreds of years, and should therefore be used to it… perhaps it was just now catching up to him.

 

Aziraphale sighed heavily and stared down at his cocoa. He couldn’t even pull together enough Will to miracle it warm again. Closing his eyes, the angel leaned softly against the dusty glass and wished in his heart for something to put this wretched feeling to an end.

 

There was the tiny tinkling of a bell and the sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards. To his mild consternation, Aziraphale found that he didn’t even have the energy to turn his head to see who had entered his bookshop. The heavy door thudded back against its frame, causing the bell to chime once more. Hadn’t he switched the sign to “Closed” several days ago? And locked the door, for that matter? Aziraphale felt his forehead crease as he frowned tiredly. It could only be one person, er… _being_ , but… there was so much snow outside! Feet of it! Surely he wouldn’t-

 

“I’m not surprised to see you in here, all alone in the dark, angel,” drawled a familiar voice. “Though I am wondering where your book is, whatever it is you’re reading now.”

 

Pushing through the chill in his veins, Aziraphale turned his head just slightly, catching the distinct silhouette of his closest friend against the streetlights shining in through the window. “…Crowley?” he whispered. He was dismayed to hear his voice crack with disuse.

 

A moment later, the demon was beside him and Aziraphale flinched with a cry at the piece of ice that was pressed against his forehead. “Share some of that angelic heat of yours, why don’t you?” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale realized that what he had taken for frozen precipitation was actually the demon’s hand. Trembling, he placed the mug on the windowsill beside him and reached haltingly up to take Crowley’s hands in his own. The demon put up no resistance, allowing Aziraphale to encase his long, freezing fingers in his own soft, wan, warm ones.

 

“My dear…” Aziraphale said weakly. The demon had pressed his side up against him, the snow-flecked wool of the black pea coat scratchy against the angel’s cheek. Eye level with Crowley’s chest, he couldn’t help but tilt his face into that coat, feeling the demon’s solid presence underneath the clothing. He gave Crowley’s fingers a squeeze, pinching along the line of each digit to work out the stiff muscles and jumpstart the circulation. “Why are you out in this weather? Surely nothing could be so important as to risk…” Aziraphale drifted off, and after a long moment of silence, he felt Crowley’s hands weakly squeeze his in return. _Oh_ , Aziraphale thought, then, _surely not. Misinterpreting again._

 

“The blessed ice froze the power lines; the electricity’s out in all of Mayfair,” Crowley said. “Can’t complain too much really. So much indignation and fury, someone’s bound to get a good thrashing before the end of the night. But I _was_ in the middle of a James Bond marathon, and when the mood strikes, nothing else will satisfy.” Crowley was jabbering, Aziraphale realized. Crowley hardly ever nattered on like this unless they were drunk. But the demon wasn’t drunk; Aziraphale would know. _How odd_.

 

“You know you _could_ read the originals while you wait,” he suggested into the demon’s coat. Aziraphale had gotten the entire set of Ian Fleming’s works for him back in the nineteen-fifties, all first edition and signed especially to _A.J. Crowley_. He wondered vaguely if Crowley had ever read them or had merely let them sit on his shelf all these years, surrounded by increasingly modern entertainment systems and subjugated houseplants.

 

“Ngh” was all Crowley offered in return.

 

After a moment, Aziraphale found himself nattering, too, completely without his mind’s permission. “Your telly’s not even hooked up to the grid, though, is it? So how could…?”

 

“Oh, bless it, angel,” Crowley said bitterly. One of the demon’s hands disappeared from the angel’s warm grasp, only to reappear a moment later tangled in Aziraphale’s curly golden hair. The hand was not so cold now, and he could feel Crowley’s nails – not demonically sharp, but blunt and strangely, humanly masculine – trailing across his scalp with just enough pressure to feel good. Aziraphale grunted slightly and pressed his cheek further into the demon’s solid form. He cupped his hands around the remaining cool limb in his grasp like a treasure.

 

The angel found that his eyes were burning and itching, and for a moment, he feared some sort of allergic-type reaction, either to the scratchy wool or the latent malevolent aura of the demon himself. Then he realized better. “Of all the ridiculous…” Crowley began as Aziraphale began to shake in his grasp, wracked by silent, dry sobs. There was no testiness in his voice, however, only a hint of exasperation backed by a decidedly undemonic fondness. Crowley sighed, dramatically put out. “It’s going to be okay, angel,” he murmured gruffly. He grasped the angel’s curls tightly, pressing Aziraphale close into his body. “The winter won’t last forever. It’s not… it’s not _the end of the world_.”

 

Aziraphale couldn’t help the single laugh that escaped him, unbidden.

 


	4. Small Desert Community

Note: Originally written January 10, 2014.

* * *

 

“Thank you again for you hospitality, and on such short notice,” Aziraphale cooed, his soft hands gently squeezing the old woman’s wrinkled ones. Behind her, Crowley rolled his eyes and pantomimed a gagging motion. Aziraphale surreptitiously pursed his lips and shot him with a warning glance.

 

“Not a problem, my dear, not a bit,” she replied, smiling brightly and squinting up at him from behind large, thick-lensed glasses. Between the frames, the short curly hair, and the penchant for sickeningly sweet endearments, Crowley supposed that anyone else would easily mistake the old woman for Aziraphale’s aged mother. He might have almost believed it himself if, of course, Aziraphale had actually been a middle-aged British bookstore owner and _not_ an immortal Angel of the Lord.

 

And if the old woman had actually been a hundred percent human and _not_ only twenty-eight-and-a-half.

 

The old woman turned and swept her strange,* glassy, purple-hued eyes up and down Crowley’s form, clearly sizing him up. Nervously, Crowley shifted his weight from one foot to the other. As the Serpent, he was used to a touch of the confidence of a predator, but now he distinctly felt the sensation of being a helpless prairie mouse under the open sky with a distinctly hungry hawk circling like a helicopter overhead.

 

“It’s always nice to have some angels around,” she suddenly said. “A few little miracles here and there, minor adjustments really, just to keep the town running smoothly. And the odd job or two around the house, of course, in exchange for whatever’s in the fridge.” She looked at Crowley sternly over the top of her glasses, as if concerned he was there to cause trouble.**

 

“Certainly,” Aziraphale began to agree, while at the same time Crowley said, “I’m not an angel.”

 

Aziraphale stared at his companion in mute horror, but the old woman only laughed. “Oh, what a silly thing you are, Erika! Of course you’re an angel. I’m looking at your wings right now.” Crowley glanced over his shoulder. His wings were _definitely_ not present, at least in this dimension. “Oh, don’t worry, they’re very nice wings,” the old woman added, humming thoughtfully to herself. “Though they are a rather peculiar shade. Black as the void, I’d say; very sleek and shiny.” She turned back to Aziraphale, patting his shoulder kindly. “You ought to give your own wings a good grooming, Erika. Work on being a little more presentable for your _gentleman friend_ there, eh?”

 

“I am a _demon_ ,” Crowley stated loudly, but the old woman didn’t appear to notice; she left them where they stood and began to fuss about the room. Looking away from her unnerving smile, Crowley stared at the angel, who was looking rather put out and worried… no, _concerned_ about her assessment. “Not an angel. And how can she see our wings?” Aziraphale frowned and shrugged. _Ineffable_. “And… did she just call me ‘Erika’? And you too?”

 

“She, er… she seems to have a _thing_ for calling all angels ‘Erika,’” Aziraphale said, rather apologetically. “Not sure where that came from, exactly.”

 

“Isn’t there a hotel in this Hell- Godfor- _bonkers_ town? A… a bed-and-breakfast, at least? Youth hostel? _Anything_?” The angel shook his head, and Crowley hissed in irritation. “Can’t we stay in the next town over, then? ‘Desert Cliffs’ something or other? There was definitely a better feel to that place.”

 

“Oh, no no no,” Aziraphale said, reflexively plumping and replacing a pillow on the couch where the old woman had toddled over to sit down. She was fiddling with the knobs on her 1923 wood-paneled radio cabinet, muttering about not wanting to miss the weather. “Josie here has run a bit of a… a _refuge_ for angels for… well… quite a long time. It would be impolite to refuse her hospitality, and much more expensive to rent a room somewhere else besides.”***

 

Crowley grumbled a few choice blessings under his breath, but relented at the pleading expression on the angel’s round, red-cheeked face. “ _Fine_. But don’t expect me to spend all my time cooped up in this house, listening to… to… oh, damn- bless- whatever.”

 

Apparently, today’s weather was “Bicycle Race” by Disparition.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Aziraphale said sincerely, and Crowley was forced to look away before he said or did something stupid.

 

“By the way, Erika,” the old woman suddenly said over the strangely ominous pinging of handlebar bells on the radio. Crowley was rather terrified to see that she was staring at him. “That’s right, _you_ , Black-Wings… Would you be a dear and change out the light bulb on the front porch?”

 

* * *

*Not that Crowley – with his yellow serpent’s eyes – had much right to deem hers as “strange.”

**She was right. He was mostly there, though, to accompany Aziraphale on the angel’s obligatory once-per-decade inspection tour of America, though that sort of volunteer work wasn’t the kind of thing Crowley figured he ought to write on a report to his superiors Down There. “Causing trouble” it was, then.

***Not that human currency was an incredible obstacle for beings who could create as much money as they wanted out of thin air, but as this tour was, for Aziraphale, the equivalent of a business trip, they were on somewhat of a heavenly budget, which demanded the use of material rather than self-generated payment.


	5. Ear Cuff

Note: Originally written February 3 and 4, 2014.

* * *

 

 “What’s that you’ve got there?” Aziraphale broke in abruptly, and Crowley, to his surprise, found himself bending down as the angel grasped and tugged at the demon’s left ear. The warm yellow glow of the track lights in Crowley’s kitchen glinted off the shining metal, drawing the eye and tempting the unwary mind with envious, greedy thoughts.* Crowley’s face scrunched up into a bitter grimace, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. The teacup he was holding rattled against its saucer and he quickly stilled his hands. “Is that… a _piercing_?!” Aziraphale cried, and was so much alarmed by the possibility that he took a step back, hitting his hip against the edge of the granite countertop.

 

“S’not,” Crowley murmured, straightening back up and taking a slow, calm sip of tea. Aziraphale knew just how he liked it: no sugar, but a teaspoon of milk and a nice-sized dollop of honey.** Of course, after hundreds of years of making the demon tea, it would have been unthinkable for him to _not_ know. Still, even if he remembered Crowley’s preferences, it shouldn’t have been possible to always make it exactly right, but Aziraphale did.

 

Crowley glanced over casually at his counterpart, who was still looking piously scandalized but also uncertain, and, perhaps most of all, curious. “Here,” Crowley said with a sigh, setting his cup and saucer down on the countertop. He leaned over again, this time inviting Aziraphale to take a closer look. The angel paused, but then leaned in close, studying the twist of precious metal. Crowley could feel the lightest hint of Aziraphale’s breath on the exposed skin of his neck. “Doesn’t go through the skin, no puncture holes,” Crowley explained patiently. “It’s called an ear cuff.”

 

“Ear cuff?” Aziraphale asked, clearly still ill at ease. “Just… sort of goes ‘round part of your ear, then stays there?”

 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” Crowley agreed. But then he smiled, making sure it was a sly, slithery kind of smile. “Did you see _what_ it is, though, angel?”

 

With obvious reluctance, Aziraphale leaned forward again, tilting his head side to side to get a better view. The workmanship was rather fine and impressively intricate. Suddenly, Aziraphale’s vague frown turned into a warm, knowing, and actually rather mischievous smile. “A serpent, eh?” Aziraphale said. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

 

* * *

 *Most of the items Crowley regularly associated with tended to take on an extra patina of sinful temptation, though as these items – like his leather jacket or the Bentley – were already quite indulgent, the effect this tarnish had on humans tended to be rather exaggerated in effect. Crowley would never get over the snakeskin shoe fad he had unintentionally induced back in the nineteen-seventies.

** Crowley was well aware of the whole “milk and honey” irony. It had lost any amusement it once had somewhere around the sixteenth century.

***For an angel, that is.

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale was just pulling the kettle off for tea when he heard the muffled ring of the bell at the bookshop’s front door. He smiled softly, knowing perfectly well who his visitor was. He remained at the counter of the kitchenette, pulling out an extra cup and saucer as well as his new jar of farmers’ market honey, and listened to the quiet rasp of the demon’s footsteps drawing closer. There was a distinct creak from one of the wooden floorboards right behind him, and as he was pouring the boiling water into the second cup, he said, “How are you today, my dear? Did you–”

 

The angel nearly dropped the kettle as long-fingered hands suddenly descended on his left ear. Trembling, Aziraphale felt a bit of a pinch on the edge of his ear, cool metal contrasting with the warmth of the demon’s fingertips. He waited until Crowley was done with… whatever it was he was doing, before replacing the kettle and spinning around. He braced himself on the edge of the counter. Crowley was standing much too close, _skulking_ almost, as demons were wont to do, but the uncomfortable proximity did not bother Aziraphale so much because of the glimpse it provided of his friend’s striking eyes. Though Crowley’s mouth was a straight, emotionless line, the angel could see a hint of nervousness behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

 

Reaching a hand up to toy with the bit of metal, Aziraphale found himself only mildly suspicious. Where other angels might jump to wild accusatory conclusions, thinking the metal some sort of demonic object or binding instrument, Aziraphale jumped merely to the likely scenario that Crowley was doing something to humiliate him. After a bit of a tug and a regretfully sharp sting, the metal came away and the angel got a good look at it.

 

Lying in his soft palm was a partial loop of metal, wide and thin and made of exquisite silver. Hanging from the center of it was a little charm, and moving it around with the end of one finger, Aziraphale realized that the charm was in the shape of a tiny feathered wing. His heart leapt in his chest. He looked up at Crowley with curiosity and mild bewilderment.

 

“Er,” said Crowley, and he scratched absentmindedly at one high cheekbone. The movement drew attention to the gold twist of metal clinging to his own left ear. “I just thought…” he began, then paused. Aziraphale looked back down at trinket. Even the veins in the feathers were engraved, the lines as fine as the point of a pin. “Thought I might get you one. You know. To match.”

 

Though appearing nonchalant, the angel could tell that the demon was, metaphorically, holding his breath. So Aziraphale smiled, reassuring and open, and held out the earcuff. Crowley looked down at it, then back up at him, obviously uncertain if his gift was being rejected or not. The angel caught his eye and, still smiling, said, “Would you be a dear and put that back on my ear for me. I’m afraid I don’t know how to do it properly, especially without a mirror.” Although unknown to himself, Crowley’s happiness was extra palpable.

 

 


	6. Drift Compatible / No Such Thing as Too Much Period Drama

Note: Originally written February 11 and 23, 2014, respectively.

 

* * *

 

**Drift Compatible**

 

“Remind me to never visit the Pacific coast again,” Crowley murmured, flicking the collar of his coat up against the chill and shoving his hands deep into the pockets.

 

Aziraphale hummed lightly in response, slipping his arm through Crowley’s with perfectly natural grace. The demon didn’t bother protesting. Aziraphale unfurled his small umbrella with a tiny pop and held it up above them as they stepped out from under the cinema’s canopy. Instantly the pattering of rain was amplified as it struck the umbrella’s cover. It was made for one person, or two, but only if those two didn’t mind being pressed intimately up next to each other. As long as the cover wasn’t tartan in pattern, though, Crowley didn’t mind.

 

“It’s a good thing we’re closer to the Atlantic, then, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said. He was smiling mildly. Crowley was glad that the angel seemed to have enjoyed the film, for the most part anyway. He knew monsters and giant robots and extreme underwater martial arts sequences weren’t really Aziraphale’s usual cup of tea. But maybe, after decades of being subjected to similar fare, he was finally coming around.

 

“I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at piloting one of those Jaegers,” Crowley said thoughtfully. “Looks like you could cause just as much destruction to urban civilization as you could to the Kaijou.”

 

Clearly ignoring his evaluative comment, Aziraphale said, “You couldn’t pilot it by yourself, you know. You’d need to find a partner. Someone you could share your mind with. Someone you could entrust your life to.”

 

Crowley snorted before he could stop himself. Out of the corner of his sunglasses, he could see Aziraphale’s questioning, tense expression. “ _Really,_ angel?” Crowley said. He smiled widely, showing off serpent’s fangs, and squeezed Aziraphale’s arm closer to this body.

 

Aziraphale suddenly smiled and it was almost bashful the way he turned his head to stare resolutely at the sidewalk. The rain pinged off of the umbrella jostling above them. He patted Crowley’s arm with his free hand. “Just making sure, my dear. Just making sure.”

 

 

* * *

 

**No Such Thing as Too Much Period Drama**

 

“What a _lovely_ finale, don’t you think, my dear?” Aziraphale gushed. He waved his wine glass for emphasis as he plopped back into the couch cushion. Crowley nervously watched the red liquid slosh right up to the rim. Miraculously* not a speck escaped.

 

“Well, it certainly didn’t have the same _zing_ as Season Three’s,” Crowley conceded, leaning back more sedately. He twisted his body around towards Aziraphale, crossing his leg at the knee, the toe of his shoe threatening to tap the angel’s thigh.

 

Aziraphale shuddered. “Oh, don’t _remind_ me,” he murmured, staring sadly down into his glass. “Poor, poor Matthew. Poor Mary, and Isobel…”

 

“Poor Sybil,” Crowley added dryly, though without scorn.

 

The angel turned his sad gaze on the demon. “Oh, I know,” he murmured, patting Crowley sympathetically on the leg. Crowley barely restrained himself from flinching, or bolting with a shrill scream.** Not that the gesture bothered him, really, but some warning would be nice. “Sybil was your favorite, wasn’t she?”

 

Crowley made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and took another sip from his own glass. He breathed deeply and sighed. “At least we still have Branson. And Mr. Bates, and Anna.”

 

“And Thomas,” added Aziraphale, with what he clearly thought was slick subtlety. Yellow, slitted eyes rolled behind designer sunglasses.

 

“Don’t,” Crowley muttered. “He may seem ‘evil’ to you, but he’s no demon. Too much caring and conscience and… _love_ to be one of, er, my kind. Too much goodness, buried deep down inside.” He tipped back his glass to finish off his drink.

 

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Aziraphale replied coolly, and Crowley choked, flecks of red hitting the couch like blood spatter on snow.***

 

 

* * *

* It was literally a miracle, though a rather minor one at that. Crowley _liked_ that couch. The white suede was so _heavenly_ it almost made the demon feel guilty.

** He _really_ didn’t want to upset Aziraphale, or rather, Aziraphale’s wine glass. It was a divine couch, okay?

*** Fortunately, Aziraphale was able to miracle the stains away before Crowley could notice their existence.


	7. Friends and Foes

Note: Originally written in nine parts on January 15, 16, 17, February 1, 7, 8, and March 25, 26, 27.

* * *

 

Aziraphale tried his best to block out the smell and taste of the demons’ essences, the revolting aroma of spoiled blood and scorched flesh, the almost electrically-charged atmosphere of hate and malice. And _these_ were some of the Dukes of Hell whom Crowley spoke of with such distaste; one of the bunch was called Hastur, who Aziraphale knew Crowley had had unpleasant dealings with during that whole failed Apocalypse fiasco. Their curse-filled mocking, and the grating tones in which they spoke, were nearly as revolting as their presence, and though he was hanging and chained by his wrists to a slimy stone wall in a dank underground room, suffering from both physical pain and spiritual dehydration, with a fellow angel chained up on each side of him, Aziraphale was struck most by a single, repeating thought.

 

_If these are truly ‘demons’… then Crowley is no more a demon than I am._

Eventually, the demonic tormentors left and Aziraphale found his concentration drifting in and out of focus as the Hell-forged chains tore deep, bloody gashes in his corporeal form, sucking like some hungry vampire at the holy essence beneath. It was hard to think deeply about anything, to remember, or to gauge the passage of time… Through the fog of pain and fear and the moanings of his angelic companions – or, rather, his angelic _acquaintances_ , as he didn’t know either of them very well, and had only happened to be in the same wrong place at the same wrong time – Aziraphale had a vague suspicion that he was forgetting something very important…

 

A shadowy movement in a dark corner of the poorly-lit, junk-cluttered basement pulled Aziraphale’s attention back into focus. He squinted his eyes, blinking away a drop of blood that had splattered on his forehead from his suspended wrists. The shadow moved, coming closer in a slowly and sinuous pattern, slipping across the floor, curling up a beam, traveling across the drain pipes that crisscrossed the dank ceiling. Aziraphale felt himself breathe in a sharp breath as the salty-sweet taste of a very familiar essence reached his senses. The angels on either side of him, Elemiah and Rahmiel, gasped in panic, shifting in their bonds wildly, the chains clinking loudly even as Aziraphale felt a weary but warm smile twitch onto his face.

 

“Hush, hush!” he whispered to the two. They obeyed immediately, though Elemiah’s eyes were fixed in terror on the shadowy movement across the pipes above them, and she leaned as far away as she was able; Rahmiel tensed and growled in a surprisingly feral way, his teeth bared in holy indignation. Aziraphale tilted his head back, peering up at the scaly coils. In the dimness, he could just make out their dangerous scarlet and sable hues.

 

A second later, the angel found himself staring up into gleaming yellow, slitted eyes. He forced the smile back onto his face, even as the world suddenly swam around him, dizziness and blood loss mixing with an overwhelming sense of relief at the presence of this… _no more a demon than I am_.

 

“Sssso thissss issss where you’ve been keeping yoursssself, angel…” the Serpent hissed. To Elemiah and Rahmiel, it might have sounded nonchalant, but Aziraphale could hear the anxiety and concern in the tone just as clearly as he heard the words.

 

Attempting a sort of bravado casualness himself, Aziraphale heard his own voice say, “It’s good to see you again, my dear. Though I didn’t think I’d see you in the likes of this place. Quite filthy.” He could feel both angels beside him tense up at the endearment, but to his hazy mind, it didn’t seem important enough at the moment to censor himself fully.

 

“Well, I didn’t think I’d ever sssssee you ssssskip out on our dinner planssss,” Crowley replied, lowering his slim, pointed head closer to Aziraphale’s face. “We had resssservations on Ssssaturday. Sssseven o’clock, the Ritzzz, our usual table…” Aziraphale groaned slightly as the memory returned, fractured, to the forefront of his mind.

 

“Sorry,” he murmured. It took more effort than it should have to avoid slipping into the Serpent’s own sibilance. “I certainly had no intention of leaving you hanging like that. Just, you know, I… Well, I rather got myself caught and locked up down here before that.”

 

“How inconsssssiderate…”

 

“ _VILE DEMON_!” Rahmiel suddenly spat, and both Aziraphale and Crowley flinched, the Serpent’s head drawing back up toward the pipes. “ _Hast thou come to torment us more? Leave this poor angel in peace! You and your kindred hath tortured his good mind and soul enough!_ ”

 

“On the contrary,” Crowley hissed, both deadpan and rather snobbishly in Aziraphale’s opinion, “this ‘poor angel’ has inflicted more torment on me than a ten-year-old with a pea shooter.”

 

“Do you think…?” Aziraphale murmured quickly, before Rahmiel could find a response to that halfway-intelligible comment, and shook the chains that held him as best he could.

 

“Why elsssse do you think I’m here, angel?” Crowley replied quietly and disappeared from view. A moment later, Aziraphale felt a heavy weight coil around the chains binding him, and then smooth, cool snakeskin was rubbing up against his torn and chafed skin like a welcome and much-desired balm.

 

Aziraphale felt the light flicker of Crowley’s forked tongue against the injuries, tasting and gauging their severity. The Serpent hissed, obviously displeased, and after a bit of fumbling about above him, the angel felt the chains begin to slacken. He stiffened his dangling legs just in time to catch himself as the manacles released, stumbling forward with a gasp as he tried to remain standing. Just before his knees were to hit the floor, strong hands grabbed his arms and kept his body aloft. With a dizzy waver, Aziraphale felt himself collapse backwards into the transformed demon’s arms.

 

“There now,” Crowley murmured, voice low and right in Aziraphale’s ear. “Don’t want to muck up your corduroys any more than they already are.” He held him up in a solid grip and Aziraphale couldn’t help but lean back into his cool body and familiar, comforting essence.

 

“ _RELEASE HIM, YOU TREACHEROUS SNAKE!”_ boomed Rahmiel.

 

Aziraphale could feel Crowley straighten up just perceptively, the demon’s muscles tensing beneath his red button-up and black tailored blazer. A spike of panic flared up in his chest; while Crowley had had literally thousands of years to get used to Aziraphale’s angelic essence and occasional holy zealousness, he had not been subjected to such from other angels who were, for the – _no more a demon than I am_ \- being, surely quite difficult to bear. Aziraphale swallowed hard, his throat rough and parched. He tried to prepare himself to run some sort of interference, to do _something_.

 

“If I releassse him now,” Crowley replied to Rahmiel, cool but guarded, “I don’t think he’ll be standing for long.”

 

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered, staring up at those dark sunglasses, his cheek plastered to the demon’s chest. “I… They need to be freed… Please…”

 

“I didn’t come here, sneaking my way past bloody _Hastur_ of all demons, to help anyone but you, angel,” Crowley said brusquely. Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat. The next moment, however, Crowley sighed and shifted them, turning his and Aziraphale’s bodies around so that they fully faced the two chained angels. Elemiah was trembling, eyes wide and teary, but Rahmiel was lunging at them incessantly, chains banging wildly against the stone wall. “I got you out,” Crowley suddenly whined to Aziraphale. “Can’t _you_ release them now?”

 

“No… no…” Aziraphale murmured. He clutched Crowley’s sleeve tightly; delirium was beginning to creep into his vision again. “Angel-proof, even from the outside. In case of reinforcements…”

 

With another sigh, Crowley gently pulled his arm out of Aziraphale’s grasp and reached cautiously towards the manacles around Elemiah’s wrists. The angel gasped softly, a short feminine coo of utter terror. “It’s alright, my dear,” Aziraphale said soothingly, leaning back into the coolness surrounding him. “He won’t harm you. I promise.” Crowley grumbled under his breath, but waited until Elemiah – still wide eyed but apparently placated by Aziraphale’s assurance – grew calm and still. Then, he traced the complicated hellish glyphs on the manacles in an equally complicated gesture, and they broke open.

 

Elemiah’s corporeal form was thankfully more athletic than Aziraphale’s – though that wasn’t saying much – and so she caught herself as her feet hit the concrete floor. She stayed in a stunned crouch for a moment, before slowly rising back into a standing position, pressing her hands back against the wall and staring at Crowley as if he were something impossible. Something like, well, a demon who helped out angels.

 

_No more a demon than I am._

 

There was a beat or two, in which Aziraphale realized just how awkward it must look for Crowley to be holding him so close like this, but then Elemiah whispered, soft and low, “Thank you… demon.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley mumbled to the angel, and then, in a firmer growl, added, “Really. _Don’t._ ”

 

“’TIS A TRAP, ELEMIAH!” Rahmiel suddenly shrieked, hysterical in his rage. His already-bruised body flailed against the wall so wild and so hard that every pound of flesh on stone caused Aziraphale to wince in angelic empathy. He felt Crowley’s arms tighten just a little more around him. “DON’T BEHOLDEN YOUR HOLY SELF TO THIS MONSTER OF HELL.” Rahmiel grew still for a moment, breathing heavily and glaring at the demon through a mop of blood-flecked hair. “ _Beast of the Pit_.”

 

“Bit of a dramatic one you’ve got there,” Crowley told Elimiah, straight-faced. “So judgmental.” He glanced down at Aziraphale. “Reminds me a bit of Shadwell, what do you reckon?” Aziraphale hummed quietly in acquiescence.

 

“Your mockery hath no effect on me,” said Rahmiel, low and dangerous. “ _Demon spawn._ ”

 

“ _Okay_ … So! While I always love a good, old-fashioned name-calling session,” Crowley said, with the air of someone standing up, wiping their hands off on their trousers, and moving towards the door, “– and I’m sure Angel here can attest to that – I’d rather not stick around here for much longer. Bit dicey, that. Never know when someone might, _you know_ , decide to check on the prisoners of war chained up in the basement. Or decide to test out their new iron-tipped flail on holy flesh. So… you in or you out, Mr. I-Speaketh-The-Middle-Englishe?”

 

Rahmiel stared at him with wide, uncomprehending, and angry eyes. Aziraphale wondered how much of that speech the angel had understood.

 

“ _You Evil Creature,”_ Rahmiel hissed. _“You… You Serpent of Lies! How DARE you try to tempt me with false promises of freely given kindness and freedom!”_ So he had at least gotten the gist of it, then, Aziraphale thought, then suddenly flinched as the fierce angel’s eyes abruptly turned towards himself. “ _You hath already seduced one of the Host of Heaven with your wily ways,”_ Rahmiel proclaimed in outrage, _“with innocent thoughts of camaraderie and devotion. What a foul, awful SNAKE you are!”_ Rahmiel’s forehead suddenly creased and his gaze softened along with his voice. “My brother Aziraphale! Fight through the evil fog that these devilish manacles have encased you in! The villain that holds you captive is of the Adversary’s party; do not be taken in! Flee, and take Elimiah with you! Do not wait for me!”

 

“No!” Elemiah cried softly. She laid her hands on one of Rahmiel’s straining arms. “I shan’t go without you, brother!”

 

“ _FIGHT!”_ barked Rahmiel, manacles clinking metallically against one another. He stared at Aziraphale with wide, blazing eyes. “Break free from that demon’s spell!”

 

“Er…” Aziraphale began. He stopped, glancing around the dank basement, looking for inspiration. While he was ridiculously thankful that Crowley had shown up when he had, he couldn’t help but feel that this scenario – limp and compliant in a demon’s arms in the presence of, not one, but _two_ of his fellow angels – would be more difficult to get out of than this prison. Already he had made too many mistakes, had thoughtlessly but clearly demonstrated - to the more rational Elemiah, at least – that he was well-acquainted with Crowley, and _not_ in the smiting sort of way. He did not cherish the thought of _lying_ to the angels, as it would be sure to get back to the authorities Up There eventually… and lying was, of course, a sin… but he certainly couldn’t hurt Crowley, even if he weren’t currently using him as a pair of crutches. _Oh, what to do?_ Aziraphale wondered. _What… to… do…?_

 

“I don’t have Angel here under any _spell_ ,” Crowley suddenly shot back, snippy. “That’s ridiculousssss. …Unless it’s the ‘spell’ of my natural charm, of course.” Aziraphale snorted. Crowley trembled, and Aziraphale didn’t have to see the demon’s face to know that he was trying to hold back his amusement.

 

“No true angel would _willing_ work with a _demon_!” Rahmiel shrieked. “ _It is not done!”_

 

Suddenly, however, the fierce angel’s face changed. Aziraphale once more found himself on the receiving end of a penetrating stare. His cheeks began to heat up in a quite unwilling blush.

 

Rahmiel’s forehead creased. “…Brother Aziraphale…?” he slowly asked in a confused, perplexed, tiny whisper. He and Elemiah were still and silent, both staring at the angel and demon the way that one stared at a Mobius strip or an Escher painting: knowing what they see in front of them but incapable of holding on to any full understanding of it for more than a few seconds at a time.

 

Finally, Aziraphale sighed. He gripped the arm Crowley had wrapped around him tightly to keep from staggering. He looked up at Elimiah and Rahmiel, and, hoping for a miracle (though not daring to ask Him for one), stated as calmly and evenly as he could, “The thing you have to learn about Earth, my dears, is that… is that everything is not quite as, er… _cut and dry_ as it is Up There.”

 

_Crowley is no more a demon than I am._

 

They stared at him blankly.

 

“You know,” Crowley observed, “I don’t think they seem like they’re ready for _that_ level of philosophical discourse. Even if it’s the remedial level.”

 

Privately, Aziraphale agreed, though he kept the thought tucked away.

 

“Yes,” he told the angels, “Crowley _is_ a demon. But, er… he is also… He is also my _friend_.” He felt Crowley somehow embrace him just a little bit closer. “He is here to save me – and, er, by extension the two of you as well – so if you could just… _not_ think about how he is a demon, one of the Adversary, Spawn of the Pit, etcetera, etcetera, for just a few minutes, then, well, he can spring the lock on those chains there and we can find a way out and all escape before, er, _Hastur_ and the rest get back.” He paused, praying for comprehension. “…How does that sound?”

 

Rahmiel looked at him for a moment, then stated stoically, “It sounds like _heresy_.” He flopped in his chains once, rattling them, and repeated in a louder voice, “HERESY!”

 

Suddenly, Elimiah’s hand was clasped over her companion’s mouth. His eyes were wide in surprise, but hers were intense as she studied Crowley and Aziraphale, looking back and forth between them. “I do not…” she began slowly, then continued, “I do not quite understand. It seems a… a terrible contradiction. But then… I have always heard that Earth is a contradictory place, the humans a contradictory people.” She straightened up a bit more, looking more essentially angelic than she had when cowering in fear. She stared at Crowley intently. “Please release Rahmiel’s seals. Brother Aziraphale says that you will not harm us, so I say now that Rahmiel will not hurt you. I will not allow it. _All right, Rahmiel?_ ” He made an ambiguous muffled sound behind her hand. Aziraphale hoped feverishly that Elimiah had as much influence over Rahmiel as she seemed to think she had. She continued, in a reasonable tone. “The two of you may then go one way, and the two of us another, to prevent any other conflicts amongst us. Is this suitable?”

“Fine by me,” Crowley said. “And the sooner the better.” Aziraphale tried to nod, but the dizziness began to creep back in so he stopped at just a short bob of agreement.

 

“I hold you by your word then, demon,” Elimiah said sternly. “I have never put the slightest faith in the words of a demon before, but as brother Aziraphale seems to… _vouch_ for you…” She looked over at Rahmiel. “Be at peace, brother, and let us get you out of those manacles.”

 

Whether due to Elimiah’s influence or to finally running out of the energy to fight, Rahmiel kept still as Crowley traced the demonic glyphs with record speed, jerking his arm back and dragging Aziraphale with him as he retreated several paces away. Rahmiel merely slumped over into Elimiah’s arms, bracing himself against her body, though his eyes… Aziraphale shivered. The angel’s pointed stare was now leveled at both Crowley and himself, sharp as a knife and somehow giving off the same threatening intentions.

 

And, hazily, Aziraphale wondered: _If a demon can be no more a demon than I… what about an angel…?_

 

There was an awkward pause, then, as the two parties – now distinct – looked at each other, waiting. Finally, Crowley sighed and said, “If you take a right out the door near the storage closet over there, you’ll hit a long hallway. Take the back staircase, three floors up, then see if you can find a loose window, or something ajar. It won’t be a bad jump, even if you can’t use your wings. Then book it, fast as you can.”

 

Slowly, Elimiah nodded. Rahmiel visibly tensed, radiating distrust, but Elimiah merely heaved him up, wrapping one of his arms around her shoulders, and said, “Thank you again, demon. May God- Oh… Well. May you… May you have safe passage.” She gazed worriedly at Aziraphale. “You _will_ be alright, brother?”

 

“Yes, my dear… I’ll… I’ll be perfectly fine with Crowley here.”

 

“…Take care then.” With a brief nod, she guided Rahmiel slowly towards the doorway Crowley had indicated. Though Rahmiel was forced to look away from him, Aziraphale could still feel the heat, the accusation, in his stare. It burned on the inside, even once the two angels were out of sight.

 

_I hope Elimiah is… discrete. And that she can talk a little… sense into him._

_Otherwise, we might be in more trouble later than we are right now_.

 

“Bless, I never want to see another angel again,” Crowley suddenly said. Aziraphale grumbled, though it was entirely for show. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ve got the Bentley parked just a few blocks away. You can make it there, right?”

 

Aziraphale nodded, but as Crowley guided him – rather gingerly – towards a different door on the other side of the basement, he had to ask, “You did… er… You didn’t send them straight into arms of those, ah, _torturers,_ did you?”

 

“‘Course not,” Crowley said, though he quickly added, “Like I’m going to let Hastur have the satisfaction of trying out his new toys. Not after what he did to my ansaphone. The poor machine has never been the same.” He sniffed. “I can’t wait to see what he does when he finds his basement empty.”

 

Aziraphale hid his smile in the demon’s shoulder.

 

_No more a demon than I._


	8. Taxi

Note: Originally written in five parts on February 26, 27, 28, March 1, and 2.

 

This story is the beginning of a _Good Omens_ AU that, despite its simplicity, I have become extremely enamored, even obsessed, with. I’ve already continued the story in great length, and I am considering posting the whole as separate from this compilation. So if readers are interested in hearing more from this AU, I would greatly appreciate your comments and feedback.

 

* * *

 

Crowley still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to snag this job with the London Taxi Service. He did, after all, have a rather long rap sheet of speeding tickets with his full name – _Anthony James Crowley_ – written all over them, and the vintage Bentley he’d spent two long summers in college restoring – all by himself, he might add – was quite well known by the Metropolitan police.

 

His school nickname hadn’t been “Speed Demon” for nothing.

 

It was probably his cousin Adam’s influence, Crowley considered – not for the first time – as he drifted with deliberate, mocking delicateness into the left lane. Though younger than Crowley by quite a few years, the two had always gotten along quite well, and Crowley was well aware of Adam’s uncanny knack for influencing people to do what he wanted them to do. His father – Crowley’s uncle – was the CEO of a rather prestigious private military force, so it wasn’t a far leap in logic from Adam’s desire to help his cousin secure decent employment to Crowley’s current position. At least it was behind a wheel, Crowley conceded, even as his stomach churned at the subjugated way in which he was forced to flick on the turn signal.

 

It was only a few blocks away that Crowley’s keen eyes caught a glimpse of the tale-tell movement of a raised hand waving him down. Passenger-less as he currently was, he was reluctant to obey the summons, but obediently pulled over to the curb, stopping the cab only inches away from a heavily-bundled figure in a camel-colored coat. At the sight of the man’s scarf, Crowley almost slammed his foot on the gas again – who wears _tartan_ anymore, really? – but by the time he had noticed, the man had already opened the door and slid into the back seat. The movement was rather smooth and graceful for someone who would obviously be pudgy even without the extra layers, Crowley thought, and for someone who was clutching an intimidating stack of heavy, very old-looking tomes.

 

“Where to?” Crowley asked over his shoulder as the man placed the books on the opposite seat and struggled to buckle his seatbelt.

 

“Er, Soho,” the man said distractedly. All of his concentration was focused on getting the mechanism to click into place, but the metal bits were going every which way, and Crowley watched with mischievous glee at the spectacle, feeling safe behind his dark sunglasses. He had been ever so pleased to get the cab with the tricky passenger-side seatbelt; it livened up the monotonous days, seeing the fits of rage and frustration that such a little inconvenience caused both Londoners and tourists. To his mild surprise and disappointment, the lock quickly clicked into place. It was a shame; the belt had been known to occasionally plague its victims all of the way to their destination.

 

“Corner of Archer and Windmill,” the man added kindly, and Crowley flinched at the sudden and unexpected eye contact. Gentle blue eyes framed by calico wire-rims pierced straight through his tinted lenses. Crowley hadn’t realized he’d been staring. He whipped back around, nearly giving himself whiplash in the process.

 

“Sure thing,” Crowley said, and, with a quick glance at traffic, pulled them out onto Upper Woburn Place.

 

A minute passed in silence of the sort that Crowley had quickly become used to as a cab driver, though it hadn’t become less awkward yet. Most passengers would ignore him, expecting his ignoring of them in return, texting on their cell phones or reading their Kindles as if they were on the Underground instead and not currently employing Crowley’s services. Occasionally he’d get the ones that liked to talk, particularly about themselves or the latest celebrity gossip or government scandal, loud and harsh with grating laughter, though Crowley had already learned how to spot them a mile away. They mostly came in the form of older women with short kinky hair, too much makeup, and an overabundance of shopping bags from Harrods.

 

His current passenger, though… As he expertly turned onto the packed tangle of an abomination known as Euston Road, he glanced through his rearview mirror and found himself startled once more. The man’s uncanny eyes were still on him, appraising – despite the obstacles of mirror and sunglasses – with the air of one well versed in moral judgment, but with unusual kindness and sympathy. Crowley turned his eyes back to the road, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, but the picture presented by the mirror burned in his thoughts, like an afterimage of a sun stared at too long.

 

The glance had confirmed the story that his first examination had supplied him: middle-aged white guy, somewhere in his mid-forties probably, with thick curly blonde hair that was starting to gray at the temples, and round cheeks, nose, and chin that all spoke of a fondness for food and drink. The camel-colored coat was clean and obviously expensive – as was the scarf, despite its hideous pattern – but also old and well-worn through many harsh English winters. As if the physique didn’t say enough already, the books solidified him as a scholar of some sort: librarian, antiques dealer, professor at the University of London, perhaps? And, if Crowley were being honest with himself, the man was more than likely gay. It was there in the lilt of his voice and the clean bluntness of his manicured fingernails and the way that he sat, poised on the hard back seat. He seemed, though, to wear his orientation like an old tattoo: something irrevocably a part of himself, yet not treasured and easily forgotten until it was dredged back into his own consciousness by someone else pointing it out. The man was hardly extraordinary, then; nothing to single him out from the hundreds of passengers Crowley had driven around in the last few months.

 

Nothing but that piercing gaze, which seemed to draw Crowley like an opposable magnet.

 

He drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change, cars on the other side of the barrier whizzing past with no regard for civilians’ right to _not_ be flattened like a pancake. He had to fight not to reach over and turn on the radio; he could be wrong, but the guy didn’t really look like a typical fan of seventies rock.

 

“S- s- s-ssso,” Crowley stuttered before he realized what he was doing. The sibilance cut through the thick atmosphere in the taxi like a flaming knife through butter. Crowley was appalled. His childhood speech impediment hadn’t given him trouble for years now. Though he daren’t look in the rearview mirror again, he could feel the man’s eyes on the back of his head. And he could actually feel his cheeks grow pink, burning like anything. The man didn’t say a word, but Crowley wasn’t sure if this was because he hadn’t heard the comment, didn’t care to answer, or was waiting patiently for Crowley to go on. Just in case it was the last option, he found himself saying, “That’sss a lot of booksss you’ve got there.”

 

Oh, hell. Could that have _possibly_ been any lamer?

 

Somehow, miraculously, the man didn’t seem to recognize the awkwardness of either the cab driver or his comments. “Oh, yes. Just picked them up from Sotheby’s! I’m quite happy to have them; they’re filling in quite a few holes in my collection.”

 

“Er… Collect booksss, do you?” Crowley added, darting through the intersection at the very end of the yellow light. A car honked indignantly, but no one paid it any mind.

 

“I have a bookshop,” the man replied. “Rare books, first editions, mostly. Antiques. That sort of thing.”

 

_Called it_ , Crowley thought. He would have been more smug if it hadn’t been so bloody obvious.

 

“…Get much bussssiness, then?” he finally put in. He wondered vaguely why he was prolonging this self-inflicted torture. _Masochist_.

The man hummed, low and with a sudden trace of exasperation. “Rather more business than I’d like, actually.”

 

Crowley laughed. It was short – there then gone again – a mere staccato exhale of the lungs, but the unintentional exclamation seemed to dissolve all of the tension in the cab. Crowley felt his shoulders relax, his customary smirk return to his face. “I understand all about that,” Crowley drawled, and suddenly the man in the backseat was laughing as well.

 

It was a nice laugh, almost a chortle, warm and benevolent and knowing. And Crowley felt something tug inside him. It was odd and discomforting but exciting at the same time. _Who is this man?_ Crowley wondered almost desperately.

 

As if he could read his mind, the man suddenly leaned forward and Crowley once more caught his gaze in the mirror. “My name is Ezra Fell, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Crowley. Er, Anthony Crowley,” he replied. As always, he wished there was an easier way to explain about his name: how he thought of himself by the last name alone, how “Anthony” had never quite felt like _him,_ even if it seemed weird to have to share “Crowley” with the rest of his family. But, of course, it didn’t really matter. He was just some taxi driver whom this Mr. Fell wouldn’t remember the moment he stepped out of the car. Still, a part of him wished he could shake the man’s hand. Make the introduction official.

 

He nearly jumped out of his seat as a soft, pudgy hand patted him warmly on the shoulder. Heart racing, Crowley heard the familiar squeak of upholstery as Ezra Fell sat back in his seat. The cab was silent, then the man said kindly, “I believe the light’s turned green, dear boy.”

 

The car jerked in protest as Crowley pressed down on the gas pedal with unnecessary force.

 

“Have you driven a cab long?” Ezra Fell asked as they flew past the Sherlock Holmes statue and Baker Street Station. It was an innocent enough question – and delivered with the upmost innocence as well – but Crowley couldn’t help but feel thoroughly judged.

 

“Care to make a complaint?” he replied flippantly, and immediately wished he hadn’t. What had Scarlett always told him about not leaving himself open like that?

 

“Oh, no, you’re doing splendidly.” Again with the tone, sincere yet still tinged by an odd sort of humor. “I was just curious. Perhaps it’s not my place to say, but you don’t seem like the sort of chap who would pick taxiing as his first occupation. Too restrictive for you, I’d think.”

 

So Mr. Middle-Aged-Rich-Gay-White-Bookseller hadn’t just been staring creepily; he’d been sizing Crowley up as well, quite perceptively. Rather than agitation or nervousness, Crowley felt unexpectedly gratified, almost happy. Maybe that’s what this pull was. Kindred spirits.

 

Crowley inexplicably hoped they had more in common. He then realized what an absolutely stupid thought that was. The guy had at least two decades on him, in all likelihood an advanced degree as well as his own business, and quite a few bodily pounds more than himself to boot.

 

And Crowley was totally straight, anyway. Scarlett could attest to that.

 

_Still_ , Crowley thought, turning on his blinker, _no sense not making friends, even if it’s only for another ten minutes._

He staunchly neglected to consider the fact that he had never tried to “make friends” with any of his passengers before.

 

“Well, the job _does_ let me drive cars all day, even if it’s not my own baby.” Crowley sniffed. “Not that I’d let most people ride in her anyway.”

 

“Oh?” Ezra Fell asked, with what seemed to be genuine interest. “What sort of car do you have?”

 

“1926 Bentley. Shiny black, with ash gray interior,” Crowley said proudly. “Fixed her up myself.” He was used to people nodding and smiling politely when he talked about his pride and joy; he knew all about their disinterestedness, even if they recognized the brand. Ezra Fell, however, whistled low, obviously impressed.

 

“Such a lovely body style,” he said. “That was a good year for Bentley. I bet she’s a marvelous antique.”

 

Crowley immediately took the man into his heart. Kindred spirits, indeed.

 

Despite the fact that he hit another seven long red lights and had to slam on the brakes for an inattentive, texting woman with a baby stroller, the drive seemed to fly by. Before he knew it, Crowley was cruising down the streets of Soho, slowing as he neared the intersection of Archer and Windmill, peering out the window and trying not to think about the fact that he was memorizing the route and surroundings.

 

Their conversation had been quite lively, having dwelled at length on the Bentley before moving to the newest exhibit at the British Museum – old masterworks inspired by Dante’s _The Divine Comedy_ – then to Ezra Fell’s volunteer work with the British Library archives, from whence the conversation sauntered vaguely downward into less coherent exclamations and talking points. Crowley trailed off on his story about dropping a flowerpot full of geraniums off the balcony of his sixth floor dorm room in college – it was really quite the tale – as the street corner came into view. He swallowed hard and gradually pulled to a stop next to the curb. Shifting the gear into park, he gripped the stick tightly and stared down at his steering wheel.

 

There was silence, and within the silence, Crowley thought, _well, what did you expect? To spend eternity driving him around London?_

He sat back in his seat. _You must_ really _be lonely_.

 

There was a rustle in the backseat, the sound of books being stacked with dull thumps, and the squeak of upholstery. Then, the man’s hand was at his shoulder again, gently offering a neatly folded stack of pounds. “Here you are, dear.” For a moment, Crowley was on the verge of refusing the money. He didn’t want something as soulless as cash to suck the life out of the strangely comfortable conversation that had just taken place. But then reality and sanity reasserted itself and Crowley took the money without looking at it. He stared out the windshield blankly as the back door opened, the seat squeaked again, and the man quietly grunted as he shifted himself and his books out of the cab.

 

At the last second, Crowley glanced down at the money in his hand and suddenly blanched. It was at least double the fare for the trip and he felt his heart pound wildly. He scrambled, legs tangling in the pedals and hands tangling in the seat belt as his body tried to both open the door and roll down the window at the same time. The window plan seemed likely to be the more successful one, so Crowley concentrated on accomplishing it. “Hey!” he yelled, trying to turn his upper body around to look out. “Hey, come back! Mr… Mr. Fell! Er…”

 

He heard footsteps on the concrete, and suddenly the man was there at his window, bending over and clutching his books tightly, looking quite concerned. “Yes?” he asked. “Is something the matter?”

 

“Er… here,” Crowley said, flicking quickly through the stack of bills, trying to sort them out. “Your change…” A warm, soft hand was suddenly on his own, stilling his movement. Crowley sucked in an involuntary breath, held it. Carefully, he looked up at Ezra Fell’s round, red-cheeked face, noticing the laugh lines and the crow’s feet around the blue eyes.

 

“Keep the change,” the man said. He patted Crowley’s hands and smiled, warm and somehow beautiful. At the driver’s stunned expression, Ezra Fell continued, “It… It isn’t very often that I have the privilege of such engaging conversation.”

 

“Me neither,” Crowley said, surprising himself with his honesty. He carefully slipped the pounds into his pocket for safekeeping.

 

He was on the verge of saying something else – something probably very lame, just his luck – when Ezra Fell continued, “If you, er… If you’re ever interested, you… you should stop by the bookshop sometime. I can give you the, uh, grand tour. …I might have some books on antique cars buried around there somewhere,” he added, a clear and desperate enticement.

 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, nodding slightly. “Yeah, that… that’d be great. Really.”

 

The man seemed to breathe a long pent-up sigh of relief. “Oh. Good. Well… I suppose I should let you get on with your work. Um, here,” and with a flick of his wrist and a sleight of hand, he was holding out a beige business card. Crowley took it, amazed by its old-fashioned elegance.

 

AZIRAPHALE’S BOOKS

BUY – SELL – TRADE – RESTORATION

EZRA FELL, OWNER

SOHO, LONDON

 

“‘Aziraphale’?” Crowley asked, curious.

 

“It’s an, er, old nickname,” the man said, rather bashfully. “Long story short, some friends of mine in primary school weren’t exactly the best at pronouncing my name, so they would always run it all together. My mother always said it sounded like a… like a name from the Bible. One of the angels of the Lord or some such.”

 

Crowley laughed. “It does, doesn’t it?” He didn’t know much about the Bible himself – such reading material wasn’t really encouraged in his house growing up – but Ezra Fell had the look of a staunch and honest Anglican about him, woven like tartan into the very fabric of his being, so Crowley played it cool.

 

“Well, it sounded like a good name for a bookshop, at any rate,” the man said, straightening up. Crowley glanced at the back of the card, not really expecting to find anything, but his heart suddenly leapt as he noticed the phone number shakily scrawled in pen on the back.

 

Funny how he hadn’t known he wanted it until it was here in his hands, though who knew why he did.

 

“Thanks,” he said. He tried smiling, and it must have worked, because Ezra Fell positively beamed back at him. “I’ll… I’ll try to stop by sometime. Call. When I can.”

 

“Excellent,” the man replied. “I look forward to it.” He released his grip on the window’s edge and began to back up, giving the taxi plenty of space.

 

“Be seeing you then, _angel_ , _”_ Crowley called to him, dripping the epithet in irony. Ezra Fell seemed rather too pleased by it, though. “ _Ciao._ ”

 

“Good-bye,” the man called as Crowley guided the cab back into traffic. “Take care, and have a lovely day… Crowley.”

 

Grinning stupidly, Crowley tucked the business card safely in his pocket beside the pounds, catching one last glimpse of a golden-haired figure in a camel-colored coat before it disappeared out of sight.

 


	9. Rain in Lower Tadfield

Note: Originally written on February 5, 2014.

 

* * *

 

From where he stood on the edge of the grassy bluff, staring down into the debris-strewn pit as the downpour transformed it into a muddy, chalky swamp, Aziraphale could almost imagine that Adam had made a different choice.

 

Had the young boy – so full of awe at all of the mysteries and wonders of the world – chosen to still his hand, to save humanity along with the whales and the witches and the hot August afternoons, this downpour would have been of a cleansing rain. Each drop would have glinted off the lush, verdant plants, plinking and sparkling in the aurora-like aura of the most glorious rainbow since the days of the Ark itself. Had Adam made a different choice, had he not listened to the anger burning just as strong as his awe, the Earth might… would… _could_ have been saved.

 

The Antichrist had not made that choice.

 

The downpour burned as it pelted Aziraphale’s hair and face. He could feel the drumbeat of it through his tartan blazer, a rat-a-tat-tat like the bursting fire of a machine gun. It wasn’t acid or blood, he supposed, at least for now, but it held a destructive force that battered the angel even more on the inside – within his angelic essence – than without.

 

Aziraphale shuddered, then continued to tremble as the rain plastered his dull curls to his forehead. It was cold and hot and everything horrible all at once. He wrapped his aching arms around himself, hunched but unable to do any more to shield himself against the torrent. His teeth began to compulsively chatter, and he felt the previously unknown sensation of bile rising up in his throat. Head bent as if in prayer – _though what good would that do now, even for an angel?_ – the lenses of his glasses grew wet with heavy, mournful drops not from the rain.

 

The End seemed to go on forever, suspended in time, until Aziraphale began to wonder, in the tiny hidden portion of his mind not overcome with soul-consuming grief, if that’s what “The End” really meant: the world dying on a repeated loop, forever sinking and drowning and never allowed to stop or pass completely away. As this thought wormed its way into the forefront, Aziraphale was hit with a full body spasm and only the staunch conviction that he was unable to do anything for all eternity but stand right here and cry kept his knees from buckling and hitting the ground.

 

Something changed then, though, and it took the angel a moment to realize what. Though the storm continued to rage around him unaltered, it was no longer lashing down on him directly from above. Aziraphale blinked through the tears and the streams of water descending from his head, then tried to straighten up, dully curious. Though his back protested violently at the action, he lifted himself up a bit and tilted his head to the left.

 

Crowley stood beside him, just as battered and soggy in his black pants, red shirt, and sable tie, his snakeskin boots squelching in the toxic muck. His wings, pitch black as a moonless night but somehow comforting in their void hue, were stretched out wide, and though the wind threatened to sweep the demon off his feet at any moment, Crowley’s right wing was tilted over Aziraphale’s head. The exhausted, hopeless angel just stared. Crowley’s sunglasses were gone, and he found himself gazing into yellow serpentine eyes whose emotion achingly, excruciatingly mirrored his own.

 

It seemed, then, that no one had really won in The End.

 

Aziraphale felt his breath hitch and a shudder wracked his body once more. Compulsively, one hand made a grotesque grasping motion towards the demon, though it was feet away from touching any cloth. Until suddenly it wasn’t. Cold hands were wrapped around his, a cold body pressed against his back, a cold nose pressed into the skin beneath his left ear, but even so, there was a warmth in the sudden closeness of the demon that caused his breath to completely cease. A strangled sob escaped his mouth, full of mindless terror and horror and grief, and black wings shifted and encircled to encase the angel and the demon completely in an umbrella of slick feathers. Though the storm continued to batter against them, there was the smallest bubble of something almost like safety and comfort and all the emotions that used to come so easy to Aziraphale within Crowley’s arms. He leaned back into the demon, crushing his forehead into his friend’s neck and, with a wail of agony, felt his soul nearly come undone.

 

He remembered that day, when the world was still fresh and new and gleaming with potential, and Crowley still crawled on his belly in the dirt and he himself stood watch at the Eastern Gate. He remembered the First Rain, and his troubling talk with the Serpent, and he remembered stretching out his wings high over his head, first to shield himself and then to shield the demon too from those very First Drops. They had been so light and crystalline and warm, full of as much promise as the First Sunshine and the First White Clouds. Aziraphale cried to think of how he’d feared _that_ rain, thought it a bit of a shame and possibly an inconvenience.

 

Had he known! Oh, had he _known!_

 

But even here… even now… there was the tiniest glimmer of solace in that, as in Eden, he wasn’t alone in the storm.


	10. The Greatest of These

Note: Originally written on February 20, 2014.

* * *

  

A thick, scaly coil tightened snuggly around Aziraphale’s neck, not constricting enough to cut off his breathing* but taut enough to grab his attention. With methodical precision, Aziraphale carefully placed the last ceramic mug on the drying rack and quickly dried his plump hands with the dishcloth. Then he gently reached up and ran a finger a few inches along Crowley’s smooth side, feeling the muscles beneath the skin ripple majestically in contentment.

 

The days where Crowley returned to his serpent form were few and far between,** but when they came, they were usually not like this. Blistering summer heat – the kind that brings all of London out to sit on their blankets amongst the trails and stone monuments of its parks – was as attractive to Crowley’s cold-blooded nature as a pin to a magnet, but today Soho had been pelted with a nigh-Apocalyptic mix of rain, hail, and snow that had left the sidewalks an abominable sloshy mess. It was frigid outside, particularly for this late in February, but Crowley had nevertheless slunk his way into Aziraphale’s bookstore and back into his modest kitchen. Aziraphale had nearly leapt out of his corporation at the sudden, sinuous weight of a grumpy six-foot-long, black-and-red serpent across his legs; he’d been at his kitchen table, engrossed in a newly-acquired manuscript, and hadn’t noticed Crowley come in.

 

The demon had been unusually retentive all day, quietly hissing to himself and only speaking when Aziraphale forced him to answer a question. He’d even declined tea, settling for wrapping his tail a bit tighter around Aziraphale’s soft waist and flicking his forked tongue at a ticklish spot on the back of the angel’s neck. Since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley had certainly dropped by more and more often, and the angel could admit to himself that he was glad for the demon’s company; so while the whole serpent bit was rather odd, Aziraphale was quite content with having his near silent companion draped around his body, across his back, and in a twist around his neck.

 

Aziraphale knew that Crowley must be enjoying his angelic body heat, using him to fight off the outside chill, as there was no other good reason for this sudden and rather extreme physical closeness. He ran a finger once more along the dappled snakeskin, marveling at the softness of Crowley’s white underbelly. Such a beautiful serpent; no wonder, really, that he was such a natural tempter. Aziraphale smiled slightly and continued his gentle petting.

 

After a few long moments of this contentment, however, the angel found himself frowning. Though he could feel his companion’s life force strongly from within his mortal form, Crowley wasn’t moving. His coils remained in place, locked around Aziraphale’s body. After an uncertain pause, Aziraphale drummed his fingers lightly against the serpent’s neck. “Crowley…?” he whispered. “Er… my dear? Are you… quite alright?”

 

Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale had almost determined to start panicking when an absentminded flicker of the serpent’s tongue made him realize what was going on.

 

“Asleep, eh?” the angel murmured quietly, and chuckled. “That storm must have really worn you out.” He took even more care as he glided his hand along Crowley’s scaly neck, not wanting to wake him. The serpent wiggled in unconscious appreciation, coils flexing; it was almost ticklish and Aziraphale had to bite back a laugh. “Well, I don’t know what possessed you to deem me an appropriate source of warmth, but-”

 

He stopped. Aziraphale was quite familiar with Crowley’s aura – only his own was better known to him – and it was, as to be expected from a demon, full of all the usual dark vices of greed and pride and lust. It had its own flavor, too, hinting at car leather and sunshine through the leaves and limes over ice, such a potent mix. Angel though he was, it had been centuries, perhaps millennia, since Crowley’s demonic aura had caused pain to Aziraphale’s angelic one, and vice versa. But now there was something else within the unique cocktail that was Crowley, and sheer disbelief at the rather scientific possibility of it made Aziraphale almost miss its true nature.

 

Curled up in a tight serpentine embrace around the angel, Crowley was not only feeling perfect calm and contentment, but…

 

 _Love_. So much love. And not from another, some byproduct of hanging around the Enemy too long. It was all from Crowley, self-generated and self-sustained, from a being who was not supposed to be able to comprehend such a thing, let alone feel it. And, oh, what strong love it was! Full of devotion and admiration and, oh… it was too much.

 

How could he have missed this? How long had such a miracle been residing, metaphorically, in Crowley’s breast?

 

It was only after his glasses fogged up that Aziraphale realized his eyes were shedding rather angelic tears of joy. He dabbed them away with the dishcloth, careful not to pester the serpent with the edge of the rag. That replaced on the counter, Aziraphale quaveringly scratched the skin right behind Crowley’s flat head and the sleeping serpent writhed in delight, the love in his aura pulsing with a thrill. Aziraphale smiled to himself.

 

He would let Crowley sleep a little while longer. It would give him time to fix them tea and figure out what needed to be said.

 

* * *

*Not that he needed to breathe in the first place, but the old human inhale-and-exhale business had become a bit of a habit for the angel, and it almost hurt to have the ability cut off in such a manner.

** Especially given his fear that, once transformed, he would be unable to or forget how to change back to his preferred human shape. Though he’d taken other forms in the past, Crowley usually just stuck with these two nowadays.

 

 


End file.
